A Touch of Trouble
by NoTimeToStop
Summary: After catching Archie & Miss Grundy, Jughead confronts his friend. "What the hell do you know about it?" Archie snaps. The truth is, Jughead knows a lot about "it." Trouble seems to follow Jughead Jones wherever he goes. Rated Teen for themes. {Chapter 2 now up. Previously titled "A Touch of Teacher."}
1. ONE: Teacher

**A Touch of** **Trouble**

 **One** **: Teacher (tag 1x02)**

Jughead wasn't spying. Honest.

He was merely walking down the hall, minding his own business, consumed by the dark, dreary cloud that was the chaos of his waking life – brooding, some would call it; emo, others (like Reggie Mantle) might claim, but it was simply the consequence of having a mind that was too loud, too jumbled, and too perceptive, and a voice that was too often discounted, scorned, ridiculed, and silenced. He had noticed through the slim rectangular window of one of the classrooms – a classroom, he knew, that _should_ have been empty – movement, the unmistakable blue and gold of a letterman jacket. And above that, a streak of auburn. Drawn by his insatiable curiosity, and temporarily distracted from his own pensive and baleful musings, Jughead approached and peered in. He had seen, with enormous shock and repulsion, the redhead of his old friend Archie Andrews inclined forward to meet that of Miss Grundy, the hot young music teacher. Miss Grundy who was in her early thirties.

They were drawn together – seriously and passionately – her hands holding his, he staring at her as if she were the only woman who had ever graced the planet, like hormonal high-schoolers who had sneaked off during study period to test the limits of their sexual inexperience and lust. The category of hormonal high-schoolers Archie definitely belonged to, and Miss Grundy most certainly did not. In that brief, uncomfortable glimpse, Jughead felt he had accidentally stumbled upon some kind of soft-core, school-fetish type porn. He was appalled, disgusted, and rather angry. How long had this been going on? Didn't they realize that what they were doing was wrong? Was _illegal_? At least Miss Grundy must know. Even if they didn't mention such a rule in teaching college – Thou Shalt Not Sleep With Thy Students – surely Miss Grundy shouldn't need to be told not to have sexual relations with her students. Students under the age of majority; students who were, in the eyes of the law, still considered children and unable to give liable consent. There was a certain two word term for it, of which she was surely familiar: statutory rape.

Jughead pried his eye from the sight and skulked down the hall. Archie, the idiot. Didn't he realize what he was getting himself into? He could have his pick of any of the girls in Riverdale, and he chose Miss Grundy? Didn't he understand that, bigger picture, there could be no future for them, that whatever they hell they had now (passionate, fiery romance; great sex made all the more fun for its illicitness) was sure to sputter and die out? If they were lucky. End in a fiery train wreck of mass proportions, if they were not. They weren't even being subtle! Making out at school, right in a classroom, where anyone could walk in. That was the main purpose of those windows in the doors – to allow principals and education administrators to peek into classrooms during their rounds and make sure everything was safe and orderly. To prevent situations exactly like this one. If Archie and Miss Grundy weren't more careful, they were going to get caught. The truth would come out. And if that happened, it would be a lot worse for both of them, a lot worse for Archie. He needed to end the affair immediately.

Jughead couldn't keep what he had witnessed to himself. He needed to talk to Archie. They had hardly spoken more than two words to each other in months, could barely be called friends, avoiding eye contact in the halls, passing as two strangers, two ships in the night. A sudden, severing divide had opened between them, and Jughead was pretty sure Archie was to blame. He couldn't understand the source or cause of this separation, couldn't understand why Archie had suddenly left him behind, cast him aside like yesterday's newspaper; he was angry his supposed "best friend" could abandon him without explanation, without warning, choosing instead all the typical jock-cliches Jughead hated and despised, maintaining radio silence and building himself into the image of this high school god – an image of perfect American masculinity and conformity Jughead did not fit into. Yet, despite his anger and confusion and hurt, Jughead still cared about Archie, still felt the need to protect him. He didn't want to see his (ex) friend get hurt.

That was how, after months of absence, Jughead found himself at the Andrews residence that evening. Sitting on the front steps like he had a million times since he was about six years old. The dwelling was almost as familiar to him as his own home, and was indeed full of precious childhood memories and good-will, of intimate talks and homemade milkshakes, of Fred Andrews standing at the stove flipping pancakes like a benevolent and dearly loved uncle after another Friday night sleepover.

It was getting late; the sky was dark. Night was a cover Jughead could hide himself under. He had time: he could turn around now and disappear into obscurity, flee from confrontation and melt into the shadows.

Archie was walking up to the house, when he spotted Jughead: "Jug? What's up?"

Jughead wasted no time mincing words. He needed to get to the point, say what he had come to say – like ripping off a band-aid. "What's up is I saw you, Archie. In the music room. With Miss. Grundy."

Archie's initial reaction was not one of shame or surprise, or even denial. It was secrecy, self-preservation. The kind that spiralled and spiralled, lies upon lies, until you could no longer tell what the truth was, who you were, or how you had managed to stray so far off the path. "Keep your voice down, my dad's inside."

"I'm trying to help you, dude. I'm trying to be your friend here. Even though we're not anymore." Archie did not contradict him. "How long? You and Grundy?"

"Since the summer." Archie swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed with sincerity. His voice was soft. "I like her."

Jughead scoffed. The moron. What did trivial matters like _feelings_ have to do with it? "So I'm guessing she's the reason you've been acting weird since summer?

"One of them."

"One of them? There's more?"

Jughead could never have guessed what emerged from Archie's mouth next:"We were at Sweetwater River on July 4th." Archie was uncertain about this next part, but it was clear that he needed to confess to somebody, anybody, the truth that had been weighing on his mind and conscience. "We heard a gunshot. _The_ gunshot."

This was now officially a million times worse than Jughead could have anticipated. "Dude, you have to tell somebody-"

"I can't. Neither can you. If people find out about Grundy-"

"A kid is dead, Archie!" God, where was Archie's perspective? Jason Blossom, Archie's fellow jock and hot ginger – they had to break some sort of statistic between the two of them - had been _murdered._ That was certainly more important than protecting Grundy. "And you're worried about some, some cougar?"

"Don't call her that." What else was Jughead supposed to call her? She was a predator, stalking for fresh, young meat. He doubted Miss Grundy was dating Archie for his titillating conversation and astute mind. "Okay, she's not like that, she cares about me."

"Stab in the dark. I'm guessing she cares more about herself. She's the one who's telling you not to say anything, right? Look, I saw you guys. She's messing with you, man. And she's messing with your mind." Again the cougar adage: she was above Archie in the food-chain. She was the sly, artful predator, and he was an innocent, oblivious lamb. She had a hell of a lot more to lose than Archie did, and a hell of a lot more practice.

"What the hell do you know about it, Jughead?" Archie snapped. "Or about me, even?"

Jughead pursed his lips together. Archie's accusation that he didn't know him stung, though the sentiment really went both ways. There was so much Archie didn't know about him. So much he had wanted to tell him over these last few months, but hadn't been given the opportunity to do so. Archie was wrong: he did understand. He knew Archie better than the boy knew himself. And, as for the other thing…Archie was wrong about that too: Jughead knew about these kind of situations. Knew all too well.

Jughead searched Archie's face, and he knew that now was not the time to reveal his secret. Perhaps the time would never be right, and he would carry this suffocating weight inside of him, alone, forever. "Nothing," he finally said. Greatnow he was a liar, no better than Archie. "But I used to know this guy once. Archie Andrews. He wasn't perfect but…" Jughead sighed. "He always tried to do the right thing, at least."

It was time for him to leave, his last words ringing in Archie's ears. Even if they didn't mean anything to him now, Jughead hoped he would ponder on them, would consider them and see the light in what his friend was saying. "Jug." Archie stopped him, and for one foolish second, Jughead hoped. "If you tell anyone about this…"

Was that a threat? Was Archie Andrews actually threatening him? "What? What are you gonna do?"

Fred stepped onto the front porch, interrupting any reply Archie might have given. "Hey, Jug. Coming in? We got take-out from Pop's." Fred knew Jughead couldn't resist a good burger.

This time it was Archie who interrupted Jughead's reply. Though Jughead would have given the same answer, hearing the words from Archie's mouth was painful, infuriating, almost malicious if not cruel. An even greater rift had opened between them, and this time Jughead would not be the one to fix it. "He was just leaving."

He left, but he didn't go home. Jughead went to Pop's Diner – his usual hangout – and ordered a milkshake, burger, and fries for one. While he ate, he tried not to think about the Andrews, eating their Pop's take-out in their tiny kitchen, Fred completely oblivious to his son's activities, feeling disconnected from his boy even as they both reached out for the ketchup bottle, wondering perhaps why he never saw Jug anymore, and Archie, pensive and moody, burdened by his secrets.

He tried not to think about Jason Blossom, his bloated corpse as they dragged his body from the river, the gaping hole in his smooth forehead, where a bullet had pierced skin and shattered skull, lodging into his cranium. Oh the terrifying and grisly end someone so young, one of their very own, had met, perhaps at the hands of an acquaintance. He tried not to think that at right this moment, a murderer walked among the seemingly innocent populace of Riverdale.

He also tried not to think about Mrs. Kira Wilcox, memories of whom he had spent the entire summer trying to forget, jarred lose by his discovery of Archie and Miss Grundy.

It had started last year: months before Archie had started to shut him out. Even with Archie in his life, Jughead was the outcast, the misfit, the odd-man-out. He was mimicked and mocked, shoved up against lockers. His books were pushed from his hands when he walked down hallways, and obscenities were yelled from passing vehicles when he walked or biked home. When he was with Archie, these occurrences happened less frequently, but he could not be in Archie's presence indefinitely, and when he was alone, bullying reared its ugly head. So while he waited for Archie to finish practice and emerge from the locker room freshly showered, or from his final period or one of his other extracurricular activities, Jughead tried to lay low. Tried to keep a low profile. Hide himself in a corner somewhere with his laptop and lose himself in the rich inner world that was writing.

That was where she found him, sitting in a stairwell. Her heels clicked down the stairs, as she descended from the second floor to the first, where her office was located. He was huddled there, typing furiously on his keyboard. A cougar: that's exactly what she was. A predatory animal, able to detect the weak and sickly gazelle in the herd and pick him off almost soundlessly. Kira wasn't sexy in the overt way Miss Grundy was, but she was curvy and blonde, tidy and pretty in her skirt suits. She was the guidance counselor, and she lavished attention upon him. It was, he miserably admitted, the most attention a member of the female persuasion had ever showed him.

She chatted with him, seemed to take a real interest in him, and after their first few encounters, invited him to hang out in her office while he waited for whatever it was Archie was involved in to finish. She had a nice office, cozy, with real potted plants and a leather sofa and mahogany desk. There were paintings on her walls and posters with motivational sayings, like: "Dream it. Believe it. Achieve it" and "Do, or do not. There is no try." He would sit on that sofa, work on his stories, and she would sit at her desk, typing away on her dinosaur Windows PC. The room was filled with nothing but the sound of fingers clacking against keyboard keys, and the occasional comment or question, as they made small-talk or shared with each other the articles or memes they discovered on the Internet. Sometimes he showed her his work, though he never showed anyone, even Archie. She would sit next to him on the sofa and lean in close. He could smell her skin, feel her warmth, perceive every tiny imperfection and freckle on her flesh. "This is really good, JJ," she would encourage; she didn't like the name Jughead, and instead had taken to calling him by his initials. She patted his knee, and despite his best intentions, Jughead's body reacted to her touch in ways he really wished it wouldn't.

Jughead felt comfortable around her, but then, that was exactly what she wanted. It progressed slowly, linearly, imperceptive and naturally, so that when their relationship finally boiled over to a point Jughead hadn't expected or consciously decided, scalding and burning him, he realized this was exactly where their encounters had been leading all along. With Mrs. Wilcox at the helm steering him in the direction she chose. The extra hours in her office, the causal laying of her hand on his shoulder, his arm, his knee, his thigh. The coffee outings when they sat in Starbucks and discussed films and books, his college applications and plans for the future.

Then she had asked Jughead for his help on a project she was working on for her graduate studies. He had quite a bit of time on his hands – as unsocial and uninvolved as he was – and he had agreed. She cleared it, quite legitimately, with his parents. She drove Jughead home from school, sat in their living room drinking tea, and explained her project. His mother had been impressed and flattered, of course her Juggie was exactly the type of perceptive boy Mrs. Wilcox needed, and his father had been charmed by Mrs. Wilcox's pretty face and sculpted legs. They had given their permission readily, never pausing to question the educator's motives. She was, after all, a person in charge of molding young minds. If those kind of scandalous student-teacher affairs happened in real life, they happened in communities other than Riverdale.

So Jughead found himself on Saturday afternoons and the odd weekday evening, sitting at the polished Wilcox dining table, pouring over case studies with Mrs. Wilcox and answering her interview questions – about school, his life, his interests, Riverdale, himself. She scratched notes on a pad of paper with a blue ballpoint pen and smiled attentively. Her chair was pulled closed to his, and when she laughed, she touched his arm and tucked her hair behind her ear, "Oh, JJ, you're so funny."

Jughead noted with some surprise one afternoon that he had never met her husband. "He's away on business," she claimed, and in fact, Mr. Wilcox seemed to be away on business quite a lot. Nor did many photos of the happy couple decorate the home. Kira changed the subject, and opened a bottle of wine. She was wearing blue jeans and a halter top, which perfectly accentuated all the curves of her body. She offered him a glass, and though he was a minor, he accepted. The liquid was pungent and sour, burning his throat. He gagged slightly but tried to hide it. His cheeks flushed redder with each swallow. It made him feel very grown up, sipping red wine from stemmed glasses with a lovely older woman, and that was the very mark of just how young and childish he still was.

Eventually, they moved to the sofa, sitting side-by-side, their hips touching. Her lips found his, and despite his shock, he did not pull away. He would be lying if he claimed he hadn't dreamed of such a scene. But despite his body's physical attraction, the way it arched towards Mrs. Wilcox's experience, it felt wrong. He didn't want this, not really, but he had no idea how to stop it.

So he didn't. He followed Mrs. Wilcox's lead, and it wasn't until later he came to understand giving in isn't the same as giving consent. Jughead had suddenly found himself in a situation he didn't know how to stop. With each meeting, her desire increased, and with it Jughead maintained his virginity only by technicalities, and then...not at all. He didn't know how to tell her no, and thought perhaps she would sense his discomfort and want to stop. But his body did things his mind did not give it permission to do, and their affair continued. As he retreated into himself, skipping school and silencing himself, spending more time in his room, spiralling into a depression he could not explain, his oblivious, concerned parents suggested further meetings with Mrs. Wilcox, whose job it was to guide and counsel, and so he could not escape her, even by active avoidance.

Jughead's encounters with Kira ended with the school year. Not through any volition on their parts, but because her husband had been offered a job in California and he had accepted. She would find a position in a school out there. She would miss him, she claimed. Miss their time together. Jughead felt strangely divided: on the one hand, a part of him would miss her, this woman who had become a dear friend, who had read and edited his work, who had encouraged him. This woman in whom he had confided, had trusted, had given his virginity. This woman who had offered him a whole new world, who had made him believe he could do anything. This woman who had made him an adult. On the other hand, he was relieved. Glad to be rid of her and the situation without having to take action himself.

He kept his mouth shut about everything that had happened, but now he couldn't be sure why he had. Loyalty to her, he thought, protecting her from her possessive husband's wrath, or a police investigation, or a school disciplinary hearing. Protecting himself, perhaps, from prying eyes and questions. He was already the school outcast; he didn't need to stick a target on his back, give the bullies ammunition, whispers behind his back in the hallways. Or maybe it was shame that silenced him: shame that he was doing something he knew was wrong, shame that he wasn't enjoying what other boys wished for, shame because he felt dirty and disgusting.

Mrs. Wilcox's last day, as she packed her office belongings into a single cardboard box, Jughead went to say goodbye. He thought of all the words he had stored up, of everything he wanted to say to her, but none of that came out. He found himself asking her about how she had fared on her graduate project. She smiled knowingly, "Oh, JJ, _you_ were my project." Then she left, walking out of his life as simply as she had walked in, _tap, tap, tap,_ on to a new town, a new school, a new boy – because he hadn't had the courage to end it, to speak up.

That was when he finally realized: she had been grooming him for this from the very beginning. She had ensured her safety, his silence, while cultivating her desire. He had been manipulated.

Archie was wrong: he understood. He understood more than he wanted.

Jughead attended the first home game of the season, though he didn't entirely like football. It was what you did in a small town on a Friday night. He would sit and brood, and watch as guys in tight pants and jock cups pummelled each other on the field for possession of a ball. Archie was playing tonight, under his new number – 9, previously belonging to the late Jason Blossom. Maybe, on some subconscious level that even Jughead was not self-aware enough to find, he hoped this would afford him another chance to talk to Archie, to continue their discussion. He knew he was right; he just needed to convince Archie he was. He remembered the nasty bruise painting Archie's left eye, how he had sustained that shiner stepping in when Reggie was accusing Jughead of killing Jason Blossom, and those taunts had quickly escalated into physical violence. It was Archie's instinct to protect him. He would do the same – even if Archie hated him for it.

Before the game started, Jughead saw Archie talking with Miss Grundy. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could tell by the look on her face that Archie's words displeased her. Archie spotted him.

"Girl trouble?" Jughead sarcastically greeted. "You?"

"Grundy and me. We're telling Weatherbee. At least, I am." He had listened to Jughead and heard; maybe their friendship wasn't beyond salvaging, maybe Archie still valued his opinions. "And also, I didn't mean all that crap I said to you. I'm sorry."

"It's cool." Archie's eyes were dewy and warm. Jughead smiled. "We're not gonna hug in front of this whole town." Archie laughed. "So why don't we both just do that bro thing where we nod like douches and mutually suppress our emotions?"

"Yeah, but as friends, right?"

"To be discussed, over many burgers, and many days."

Maybe during one of those late-night burger talks, Jughead would finally be able to tell his friend his secret – but for now, the separation was still too fresh, and Archie's words still echoed, partially forgiven but never forgotten, in his head. But maybe, someday, the trust would be reestablished and Jughead would tell him everything.


	2. TWO: Piranha

**Warning: this chapter contains a scene that may be sensitive to some readers.**

 **Two: Piranha**

Jughead hadn't wanted the affair between Archie and Miss Grundy to end the way it had. While he believed Grundy – or whatever the hell her real name was – leaving Riverdale forever was for the best, and while he considered the woman predatory, he hadn't wanted their break-up to come at the cost of the woman's job, her house, and the life she had built for herself. He hadn't wanted Archie's heart to be so painfully ripped from his chest and trampled underfoot. He certainly hadn't wanted to involve Mrs. Cooper – the craziest and scariest woman he knew – or Betty.

Despite what Archie might think, Jughead had not and would _never_ break Archie's trust. Although he knew of the affair and had strongly disapproved (no, "disapproved" wasn't a strong enough verb; "rejected" and "condemned," "deplored" maybe. He had been utterly disgusted and, if he was honest with himself, a little frightened) of it, Jughead hadn't spoken of it to anyone. Betty, he figured, had figured it out for herself. Once she started digging, her curiosity could not be quelled; she was relentless.

Jughead had hoped Archie would take the necessary steps to end the affair himself, separate himself from her grasp, halt their clandestine meetings, before the situation spiraled out of control. Exactly like it had. Jughead had anticipated, nay he had _known,_ something like this would happen. The other shoe always falls off. The shit always hits the fan. It's inevitable and inescapable. Life just screws you. Why didn't anyone ever believe him? Why did they always brush off his warnings as the hyped-up paranoid ramblings of a cynic?

And why, despite his superior wisdom and advanced-functioning teenage brain, did Jughead find himself trapped in the same difficult situations over and over again? Why could he never seem to free himself from Fate's grasp? Why did he always have to struggle just to keep from drowning?

Archie Andrews, for all his moronic tendencies and refusal to listen to his best friend's sage advice, possessed a remarkable knack for being able to get himself out of trouble relatively unscathed. It was a trait Jughead envied and desired for himself.

But Jughead Jones III had no such luck.

If he had to choose a date when his string of misfortunes first began, he would have to say it was around the time his father lost his job. There had perhaps been other moments before that, other signs that catastrophe was approaching: the prevalent stench of beer, the wads of cash that mysteriously appeared and then disappeared, the shady characters hanging around the trailer park (okay, shadier characters than usual; strangers), the unexplained absences at night - nights Jughead now knew his father had spent in jail. Fred Andrews firing FP was simply the straw that had finally broken the camel's back, the defining moment that threw the other events into motion: his father's continued failure to provide for his family, FP's increased drinking until he spent more time drunk than sober, Jughead's mother taking Jellybean and leaving, the late nights and the assimilation of the Southside Serpents into his life, his own inability to stay with his drunken father and spending his nights holed up in the drive-in. All of this, plus Archie's sudden dismissal of him. The unprecedented severing of a friendship, so that Jughead suddenly found himself homeless and friendless, alone and adrift in a cold, dark world he was too proud to admit he was frightened of.

He found solace in the drive-in. The theater, with its old-school projectors and reels, was a landmark from a simpler, happier time. With his few possessions, tattered sleeping bag, and trusty pillow, he had created an out-of-the-way space for himself. A fortress of solitude, amidst his happy memories and the canisters of film. Those first few weeks, he fended off the loneliness by telling himself that the atmosphere was romantic, a perfect place for a writer to nurture his inspiration and creativity. La Flâneur – the urban explorer.

But the novelty and sentiment soon wore off, and he longed for his own bed, his own four walls, for security and safety. He had become a light sleeper, his ears attuned to every sound, every footfall. The nerve-wracking life of the fugitive. He had become an anxious creature in hiding.

Then the town council, the mayor at the helm, had decided it was in Riverdale's best interest to demolish the old drive-in. Whose best interest did it serve exactly? They called in making way for progress; Jughead thought it was just another dollar-chasing agenda, sacrificing the old and familiar, the out-dated and misunderstand, for 'profit' and 'development,' bullshit about improving the local economy. The story of Jughead's life. Creativity, passion, conviction, stability, assurance, family, his very self – they meant nothing in the face of a few dollars. Despite his efforts, despite the way he protested and labored, he could not halt demolition. The most he could hope for was one final movie, one final night when the residents of Riverdale could gather together and for one moment forget their lives, their troubles, the murder of Jason Blossom, and be united in escapism and innocence. They could be one.

Jughead was alone again, cast out, with nowhere to go. But he would take care of himself; he always did. No one else was going to take care of him. His father had assumed he was spending his days couch-surfing, and he didn't enlighten him otherwise. FP couldn't help him. There was only one thing Jughead wanted from his father, and his father wasn't able to give it to him.

He spent a couple of nights after the closure of the drive-in at the mission downtown. He pulled an all-nighter at Pop's, claiming that he needed a quiet place to study and it was too loud at home. He spent two nights on the couch of his old friend Tilly, who had grown up three trailers down in the same trailer park, until Tilly and her crazy mother had gotten into a huge fight, which resulted in a black eye, a gash needing sixteen stitches, and the appearance of the police. Jughead had snuck off before the cops showed up; the last thing he needed was Sheriff Keller or one of his deputies asking questions. He wouldn't have been able to come up with a suitable explanation as to why he was there in the first place.

It was pure coincidence – whether lucky or unlucky – that he ran into Dale Welch, commonly referred to as Piranha, though Jughead wasn't sure why. Jughead was stocking up on a few staples – chocolate bars, Twizzlers, and mini boxes of cereal – at a local convenience store where Welch frequently purchased his two daily packs of Marlboro cigarettes. He was a tall, stocky man with a loud, booming voice that didn't seem to match his slight appearance. "Jug, my boy!" he practically shouted, throwing an arm across the teen's shoulders, nearly startling him into a heart-attack as he unassumingly browsed their selection of granola bars. "Look at you! You're so tall! How old are you now? 15?"

"17," Jughead mumbled, shifting his bookbag higher onto his shoulder. The cashier behind the counter was watching them. Jughead wished Welch would speak quieter; he was drawing too much attention. Avoiding attention was Jughead's specialty.

"Wow, that old! Time flies, especially when you're an old man! I remember when you was just knee-high to a grasshopper. Had a big head, ya did! You've grown up right fine now. Right good looking, like your daddy. Bet you're just beating the girls off with sticks, ain't ya? How's your old man doing?"

"He's fine."

Piranha took a step back, considering the pitiful groceries in Jughead's basket, the bulging bookbag, the slumped shoulders, the closed expression and definitive statement, offering no invitation for further conversation. "Trouble at home?"

Jughead decided his best defense was silence.

Piranha nodded. "You got a place to stay tonight?" Jughead maintained his muteness. Piranha nodded again. He slapped the boy on the back. "That's it. You'll just have to stay with me until you're back on your feet. I'm afraid all I got's a couch, but it's better than sleeping in the park, now ain't it. And, while I'm at it," the middle-aged man took the groceries from Jughead, "I may as well help ya stock up on some stuff." He examined the items Jughead had chosen, and shook his head in bemusement. "How do ya stay so thin with all this sugar?" Welch laughed and patted his significant beer belly. "You'll have to tell me your secret. I'll do anything, except diet, quit smoking, or give up drinking." The man guffawed again, amused by his own joke. He guided Jughead through the store, grabbing a couple cases of Bud Light and a jar of Jif Creamy Peanut Butter.

Jughead followed obediently, though he wasn't sure why. He barely knew Welch. He knew the man was a Serpent, and that he lived alone on Bellemont. He didn't have a wife or children, but he had a nephew who had once lived with him, but was rumored to have run off to New York City. He had come to their trailer a few times to speak to his father and drink beer.

Yet he allowed Welch to pay for his items and lead him out the store to an old El Camino with rust three inches thick and fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. He climbed into the passenger seat and watched as the neighborhood grew shabbier and dirtier. Inside Piranha's home – a dilapidated storey-and-a-half with peeling paint and sagging front porch – he made a nest for himself on the couch. It was the first offer for shelter he'd received. Of course, Archie didn't know about his situation, or he might have offered his floor – how many nights had he spent sleeping over at casa de la Andrews? – but they weren't exactly back on best-friendly terms, and he was too proud to admit he couldn't go home. Jughead was tired of always looking over his shoulder, of having to be sneaky. A couple of nights in a house – even as filthy and poorly tended as this one – would be a welcome change. Security, safety, warmth. How long had it been since he had known these things?

He helped Welch make Kraft Dinner at a rickety old range stove from 1986. They ate the cheesy mess with a can of Spam and Heinz ketchup. Welch offered him a beer, but Jughead declined. He wasn't a fan of alcohol. After supper, the dirty dishes piled high in the kitchen sink, they spent the evening watching television, like most American families. There was a kind of comfort in mundanity. Jughead watched without interest, thankful for an excuse to numb his mind, if only for a few hours.

During Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, Welch shouted out answers. Most of the phrases, surprisingly, he got correct; nearly all of Alex Trebbek's trivia he got wrong. Jughead internally answered Alex's questions before the contestants buzzed in, but he did not speak aloud. The Serpents said and did a lot of things, but one thing they did not value was a genius. He didn't want Welch thinking he was a freak: "Look at FP's son, acting like his shit don't stink." He could never seem to win: the virtues he valued most – intelligence, wit, perception – were met with scorn and suspicion by his father's crowd, and yet at school, where among his peers such qualities should have been valued, he was the outcast, the loner, the freak. The boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Another victim born into a white-trash family.

After the game shows came the prime time line-up. Cop shows, doctor shows, superhero shows, sitcoms, dramatic shows starring far too many beautiful people to be realistic – Jughead lost track. The characters and plots blurred together, a low soundtrack underlying Welch's words as he told stories of his younger days, pivotal moments when he was at the forefront of the Serpents. Tales of the glories of sex, drugs, and violence, punctuated by the occasional burp and guffawing laugh, the hiss of a new beer can being opened. Jughead's eyes grew heavy and his head dipped, lulled by the steady rhythm of Welch's voice.

He must have fallen asleep, because one moment he was listening to Thomas Gibson lay out the facts of the case, and the next he was standing behind a contestant's booth on the set of _Jeopardy_! Alex Trebbek smiled upon him, like a magnanimous grandfather, but when he asked his questions they came out in a jumbled language Jughead couldn't tell from Koine Greek. He pressed his buzzer, but no sound emerged. He turned to his fellow contestants and was surprised to see his father and Mrs. Wilcox at his side, but instead of buzzers they were holding snakes. He looked down at his own hand. His buzzer too was a serpent. The reptile released a raspy, foreboding hiss and barred its teeth. Amber venom dripped from one sharp fang. He tried to drop it, but was too late. The snake coiled itself around his arm and plunged its fangs into the thin flesh of his veins.

Jughead was alerted back to reality by the sudden quietness in the room. Images continued to flick across the screen in the dark room, a dizzying array of light and too-bright colors, permanent hues of blue. The volume had been turned down so low it was barely audible. He was curled up against the arm of the couch and was aware of the presence sitting at his feet. Welch was perched on the edge of the couch, his hand on Jughead's knee.

"Did ya know," Welch was saying, his voice seeming to come from a space that was both distant and close, "that piranhas travel in packs, like gangs? Makes 'em stronger sure, but it's safe too. Why you think a man dies when he's cast from his gang? Cause he's alone. Ain't right. A man needs his gang for protection. And ya see, the other thing about piranhas is, when their backs is against the wall, they'll turn cannibal. They'll take a chunk out of each other, just to survive. They'll do what they have to. Cut their razor sharp teeth right through ya just to see the color of your blood. Serpents and piranhas ain't much different, when it comes down to it. Piranhas is just the serpents of the seas." What the hell was he talking about? Jughead was still caught between planes of consciousness, and couldn't make sense of his surroundings. "A man to be completely a part of his gang, close as his own skin. Can't keep nothing from 'em. But FP, he don't always understand that. He's too reckless, and he's too secretive. Keeps to himself what could benefit the whole gang. What kinda proud man doesn't initiate his own son into the fold?" As this strange slurred soliloquy was spoken, Welch's left hand took the liberty of traversing up the teen's thigh.

The last of the sleepy fog instantaneously evaporated from Jughead's brain. _No. No, no, no, no, NO!_ He pushed himself upright, and tried to swing his lanky body off the couch. Welch grabbed his arm and yanked him back down. The man's beefy hands enclosed around Jughead's wrists, pinning him down into the cushions with his hulking mass. A spring dug into Jughead's back, and stuffing spilled from a tear near his elbow. The stench of beer and body odor was overwhelming. The sweat beading the Pirhana's brow glistened in the flickering of the television.

Jughead was shaking. He could feel the tremors vibrating from deep inside him and rippling to his outermost extremities, the very tips of his fingers and toes, stalled against Piranha's body as the man pushed against him. Newton's first law of motion: an object in motion stays in motion until acted upon by an external force. A large, formidable, excitable force bearing down upon him like a grizzly bear.

Jughead quaked as his heart beat picked up dangerously – adrenalin? Heart attack? Good old fashioned fear – each sensory nerve extra-violently alert. God, how could he have been so stupid? "What are you doing?" he asked, though he knew perfectly well what the Piranha was trying to do, but hoping against foolish hope that he was wrong.

"FP's been holding out. By the time my nephew was your age, I had been tricking him out to Serpents and drug dealers for years. Ya don't get something for nothing, kid. Gotta earn your keep."

Jughead fought against Welch, the musty couch groaning underneath him. He wondered vaguely, in a brief moment of clarity breaking through his escalating panic, how many other down-on-their-luck teenagers had 'slept' on this couch. Had they all been as incredibly and moronically naive as him?

Welch wrenched the boy's arms above his head, hindering his struggles. He maneuvered both Jughead's wrists to one hand, and with the other stroked the exposed skin of Jughead's arm, down his chest and hips, to the waistband of his jeans.

Coherent thought was lost, but if he had been able to contemplate a course of action, Jughead might have decided he was in principle utilizing Newton's third law of motion: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Jughead was simply using an equally violent and necessary course of action to react against the assault occurring against him. Instead, there was no thought, only fear, as Jughead freed one of his legs and kicked with all his might. His knee came up, and landed a blow to Welch's tender regions. Overtaken by pain and shock, the man temporarily relaxed his hold on the boy. Jughead took the opportunity to wrest his arms free, knee the man again, and punch for good measure. His fist connected sickeningly with an eye socket. It was the first time the non-confrontational Jughead had ever struck anyone. Words were his preferred weapon of choice, but all the words in all the languages of the world couldn't save him now.

Welch didn't fall so much as lose the ability to hold himself upright. Jughead leapt from the couch, grabbed his stuff, neatly piled at the base of the coffee table, and bolted out the front door without a glance behind him. He ran, and he didn't stop running until he was several blocks from the house. He slowed his pace only long enough to don his jacket and swing his backpack over his shoulder, and then he crept along, keeping to the shadows in case Welch should follow him in his car. Jughead was shivering severely, but couldn't seem to make himself stop.

What the hell had he been thinking? Why had he thought sleeping in the house of a man called _Piranha_ was a good idea? He hardly knew the man. Just because he had seen the man hanging around his father, he had decided he could trust him? Idiot, idiot, idiot. He _knew_ what kind of men his father associated with. Drunkards, crooks, fighters, and thieves. All manner of creeps. Was Jughead really so desperate that he would take shelter in the home of a stranger?

Yes, aparrently, he was.

What had his life become? When had he changed? Morphed his shape, resembling more and more the statistic he feared becoming, until he didn't recognize himself anymore. His life was spiraling out of control; he was quickly devolving into one of those after-school specials. He was becoming exactly the type of person everyone had always expected he'd be.

Why him? Why did people like Welch and Mrs. Wilcox target him? Did they know something he didn't? Was it a scent they could smell - piranhas and cougars - like the sickly animal in the herd? A stench of brokeness, easy prey. A flashing neon sign: devour this one.

Jughead wanted to talk to someone; wanted to hide; wanted to find a hole somewhere and break down and never resurface again. His feet guided him along familiar paths, and he soon found himself standing in front of the Andrews' beloved homestead. All the windows were dark except one. A faint yellow light glowed out, accompanied by the sweet strumming of a guitar, but the light did not make it to the sidewalk. To Jughead, standing alone, truly and utterly alone, covered in darkness.

It was a fatal failing in his own personality, he thought, to have worked to build himself into a figure of independence and non-conformity, not giving a damn about anyone's opinions, and yet to crave friendship, affection, home. Love.

Jughead kept walking. The night was chilly, and he huddled inside himself. But that was pointless. His own body was an empty, traitorous shell offering him no warmth. If he wasn't so committed to uncovering the mystery and discovering Jason's killer, to completing his novel, he'd throw himself into Sweetwater River now and let himself be carried off downstream in the sweet, blessed silence of the churning waters.

 _Liar,_ a voice within said. _You're too much of a coward. You're too weak._

He needed to find somewhere to spend the night. There was only one safe place left. The high school: the very building he dreaded above all others, the place he couldn't leave fast enough at the end of every day, was now his last refuge. The balance of their love-hate relationship had shifted to an emotion stronger than either love or hate to necessity. The place he had first encountered Kira, that selfsame stairwell, was now his haven and sanctuary, his temporary home.

Breaking into the school wasn't hard. He had done it before, with more dubious intentions. The administrators were cheap, and had not forked out the money to install a proper alarm. Instead, the doors were chained and padlocked at night. The hallways patrolled by an ancient janitor who by 1am had usually given up on cleaning and slunk off to the teacher's lounge for a stale donut and a nap.

Jughead thought again about Archie as he unrolled his sleeping bag and arranged his meagre possessions. What would he think, if he could see him now? What would he think if he learned about the Piranha? About Kira Wilcox? Would he still believe Jughead was a friend worth having? Was worthy of anything at all? Or would he, and everyone else, think Jughead was garbage? Just another kid from the wrong side of the tracks who deserved what he got? Who had brought all this misery upon himself?

Worse yet, what if no one out there cared what happened to him at all?


End file.
